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‘If you could just lift it up a little bit more,’ I say, tugging at the poor man’s shirt. ‘That’s perfect, just so we can see those pecs better.’
I turn back to my best friend Erica who’s holding my phone ready.
I pout my lips ever so slightly and tilt my head up to minimise the risk of double chins, all the while praying that the lighting is dull enough to hide any traces of the fluorescent cocktails we’ve been supping all afternoon.
I do a last-minute adjustment of my top, causing my cleavage almost to go X-rated. I desperately try and wrangle my boobs back under control, which in turn exposes my midriff.
‘Bloody dress code,’ I mutter under my breath. Only Helen could have friends who would think that ‘slutty’ was a good theme for a hen do. It was very her though; when we used to live in a flat share at university she always went out in the skimpiest of outfits, but still, I’m not used to having so much flesh on display.
‘OK, that’s lovely,’ shouts Erica as she snaps away.
I channel my inner model, turning my head multiple ways and pointing my hand at the poor man’s chest, as if I’m advertising him as a prize in a game show.
Content that she must have at least one good photo, Erica hands the phone back to me and I thank the stranger whose chest I’ve been exposing. He skulks back to his friends, unsure of what’s just gone on, but they make as much whooping and hollering as mine do. The poor man’s just been henned.
‘Oh my God!’ says Erica. ‘I do not believe you had the shame to do that.’
‘What? It was only his six-pack, it’s not like I asked him to get naked,’ I say, shrugging and reviewing the footage. ‘Ah, bingo.’
I select the one that shows not only his six-pack, but also my provocative pout, and I send it to the chief bridesmaid. I also post it to Twitter for our friend Amelie to see, and within seconds she’s favourited it.
‘I can’t believe Amelie’s missing out on these shenanigans,’ I say, secretly thinking that she lucked out by being on a business trip in New York this week, so that she gets to witness the humiliation of skimpy outfits and ridiculous challenges from the comfort of her hotel room. She’s definitely not facing the constant dilemma of whether or not she’s going to have an involuntarily nip slip or thong flash whenever she moves.
‘I think I’m the first one to complete that challenge,’ I say, looking around at the other members of the party stalking their prey around the bar. ‘Now perhaps we can work on yours, ladies.’ Erica and Tess groan as they peruse the list of acceptable photos in the game:
Sexy six-pack
Separated at birth (celebrity lookalike)
Mutton dressed as lamb
Escaped from captivity
Most likely to vomit first
‘What about him?’ asks Erica, pointing at a man in the far corner. ‘If you squint, he kind of looks like Ryan Gosling.’
‘What, if Ryan Gosling was six-foot-ten and ginger?’ replies Tess.
Erica tilts her head. ‘OK, so perhaps he’s more a ringer for that long jumper – you know, the Olympic one that was on Strictly.’
I quickly tap that into my phone. ‘Greg Rutherford,’ I say, thanking Google.
‘That’s him. Be right back,’ she says, tottering off to snap a selfie.
I turn my attention back to Tess but she’s off like a rocket in the other direction.
What is it about hen dos that sends you into a frenzy trying to do things you never would in your right mind? As I take a sip of my cocktail I get my answer: it’s only 3 p.m. and I’ve already lost count of how much alcohol I’ve consumed today.
I look around the bar – which, for a Saturday afternoon, is buzzing – full of the hen-and-stag-do crowd, all high spirits and bravado, vying for the prize for most cackling. While the other girls are off humiliating themselves (and others) in the name of the hen, it’s nice to actually sit down for a minute and have a bit of time to myself – it’s been a full-on day of activities. We started off with a life-drawing class this morning (#SeeingLotsOfWilliesAtBreakfast), followed by a pole-dancing class (#ChannellingMyInnerStripper), lunch at the OXO Tower (#NomNomNom), and now we’re having late-afternoon cocktails (#TroubleWrittenAllOverIt) before we head onto a party boat tonight (#BringOnTheVomit).
My phone vibrates in my hand and I look down to see a message from my mum:
Hi, Sweetie, don’t forget it’s Rosie’s birthday today. Speak soon, Mum xx
Oh crap. How did I forget my sister’s birthday?! Surely Facebook should have told me that! She’s obviously one of those inconsiderate people who turn off their birthday notification. I mean, what do they expect us to do? Remember on our own? Last year I was working so hard that I would have forgotten mine, if I hadn’t had notifications of birthday wishes from eager friends when the clock struck midnight.
I rub my temples as if to chide myself for forgetting. Of course it’s her birthday; it was one of the first things I thought when the hen do was announced for today. But in all the military planning that Helen’s chief bridesmaid Zoe has done, I’d been reprogrammed to think that nothing else was going on today.
Hey, Sis, hope you’re having a great birthday! Did my card arrive in time? I’ll try and get up to see you soon – it’s been ages. Daisy xx
I send the message before logging into Moonpig and ordering a quick birthday card, picking the first ‘Sister’ one I find that doesn’t require a photo upload. By the time Erica makes it back to the table, I’ve written it and had it posted, and can now blame Royal Mail for her not receiving it on time, cough.
‘Now, I tell you what, if I wasn’t with Chris . . .’ she says, winking at me. ‘You should get yourself over there.’
‘What, and incur the wrath of Zoe? Wasn’t that against the rules – no diversions from the hen? Plus, he’s not my type.’
‘What, tall, handsome and here in real life?’
‘Very funny. I do meet up with my dates, you know.’
‘Uh-huh, then dismiss them for not living up to their online personas.’
‘It’s not my fault that people deliberately lie on their profiles. If only the men I spoke to on Tinder told the truth.’
Erica howls with laughter. ‘Like you do? When was your profile photo taken?’
‘It was taken at a temple at Chiang Mai and I use it because it shows I’m cultured.’
‘Sure you do. It’s not because it was taken four years ago when you had less wrinkles . . .’
‘It’s actually more about that awesome tan I had, rather than the wrinkles.’
‘Ah, I’ve missed this,’ says Erica. ‘We haven’t been out like this for ages. Hell, I haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘I know, work has been so crazy,’ I say, nodding. ‘It’ll calm down soon.’
For the amount of time I see my best friend, you’d never believe that I was currently living in her spare room.
‘Done it,’ says Tess as she triumphantly walks back to the table. She shows us a picture on her phone.
‘He definitely wins “Escaped from captivity”,’ I say, holding my handbag a little closer. ‘He looks like he belongs on one of those photofits on Crimewatch.’
‘Oh, he’s harmless. I used to teach him; he’s a gentle giant and an absolute whizz at algebra.’
Erica and I look over in surprise.
‘Right, ladies,’ says Zoe, storming up to the table. She’s Helen’s chief bridesmaid and BFF from home; she takes both roles very seriously. ‘Thank you for your photo contributions, we’ll be judging who won the challenge later on. But in the meantime, I’ve nabbed us a big sofa area so we can play the next game.’
She claps her hands together as if to hurry us along and the three of us plaster fake smiles on our faces.
‘Great,’ I say, feigning enthusiasm. Any actual enthusiasm was lost along with my dignity, which was around the same time as I put on the outfit that makes Julia Roberts’s hooker costume in Pretty Woman look conservative.
‘At least with all these games we’re not spending that much money here,’ says Tess as she struts off ahead of us. She’s not wrong, which is good because the hen do practically warranted its own savings plan. Helen and her fiancé are eloping to Las Vegas so this is for all those who can’t afford to attend the real wedding. Only, to be honest, I’m pretty sure that I could have flown to Vegas for less money than today’s activities. I’m just counting my lucky stars that Helen wanted her hen do in London – at least Erica and I don’t need a hotel for the night.
The area that Zoe’s found for us sees two sofas facing each other, wedged into the corner of the room. Most of the other people on the hen do have nabbed the comfy bits already, so I find myself perching on a knobbly arm with Erica.
‘OK, so I’m sure that everyone’s played Cards Against Humanity before, right?’ says Zoe. ‘Well, I’ve made us a hen-do version. I’m going to give each of you six cards that have answers on them, then Helen will select and read a statement card from the deck and you have to put forward the answer card you think will fit best. The lovely Helen will then pick her favourite. OK?’
Before anyone can say anything, Zoe’s started to deal the cards. No doubt because she’s only allotted us a certain amount of time to play this game, as the whole hen do has been run to a strict time schedule.
I pick up the cards I’ve been dealt and read them over:
Keeping your toenails clipped
Owning a whip
A good right hook
The missionary position
Not giving a shit
Organisation and planning
I’ve only ever played the official Cards Against Humanity, and that was when I was pretty drunk, but this looks as if it’s going to be less offensive and more risqué. Probably for the best, as I don’t know many of Helen’s other friends.
I pick up my phone and tap out a quick tweet.
Hang on to your hat @amelieMwah we’re playing Cards Against Humanity Hen Do style – be prepared!!!
‘Right, then, first statement,’ says Helen, turning over the card with a cheeky glint in her eye that lets me know she’s enjoying every minute of this day. ‘The secret to good sex is . . .’
There’s a tittering amongst the hens as we all start rereading our answer cards, looking at what’s most suitable, e.g. the funniest. To be honest, all mine are pretty apt – well, apart from the missionary position one – unless that’s what you’re into. I’m about to put down ‘keeping your toenails clipped’ when I change my mind and put ‘owning a whip’.
I tweet my response and a couple of the other responses too, all for Amelie’s benefit, of course, so that she doesn’t feel she’s missing out. At university the five of us lived together and it seems strange for her not to be here. With Helen having moved back to her native York after uni, it’s usually her that’s missing from our quintet.
‘I think Erica’s is the best,’ says Helen, as Erica does a quick fist bump in victory. ‘The secret to good sex is being up for anything.’
‘Nailed it,’ she says, giving me a wink. She can be so competitive but it makes me want to win the next round.
‘The key to a good marriage is . . .’ reads Helen, as she turns over the next card.
‘Damn it,’ I say to Erica. ‘Surely that should have been owning a whip.’
‘Ah, that’s always a bugger when you play your trump card too early.’
I throw down my ‘a good right hook’ card and, of course, I’m not surprised when it’s beaten by one of the other hens who has ‘always being on top’.
I tweet the updates to Amelie, and to the rest of my one thousand, nine hundred and ninety-seven followers, who, I’m sure, are on the edge of their seats waiting for the next instalment.
‘OK, next up: blank is a woman’s worse enemy,’ says Helen. ‘So we’re looking for the answer at the beginning of the sentence.’
‘Too bad I don’t have a card that says hen dos,’ says Erica, nudging me.
I look down at my ever-escaping cleavage. ‘If only,’ I say, thinking that would hands down be a winner.
I scan my cards and select the only appropriate one left.
Helen peruses the answers before settling on mine. ‘Here we are – the missionary position is a woman’s worst enemy. Good job, Daisy!’
I beam, the cocktails making me feel like I’ve just won a Nobel Prize rather than a silly hen-do game.
I don’t win any of the other rounds, and it doesn’t take long for us to finish the game.
‘Right, then, hens. We’re leaving for the river cruise at sixteen forty, so that gives you fifteen minutes to drink up and go to the loo. We’ll rendezvous by the door,’ shouts Zoe.
I give her an X-Factor Cheryl salute and turn my attention back to my drink.
Erica shimmies off the sofa and joins the mass exodus with the other hens who run to the bar and the loos in equal numbers.
I glance at my Twitter responses before I scan my Twitter work account quickly. There doesn’t seem to be anything that can’t wait until Monday morning, or at least my hungover stupor tomorrow. I’m currently looking after the social networking for the marketing agency I work for, but I’d much rather tweet late than tweet drunk, I’m not a moron.
My phone buzzes with a text from my sister:
Thanks, Daisy. Having a quiet birthday as Rupert’s away on business. Haven’t got your card, maybe I’ll get it on Monday. Looks like I’m going to be in London next week, do you fancy meeting for lunch or dinner on Wednesday or Thursday?
I feel a little guilty that not only did I forget her birthday, but also her husband isn’t even there to take her to some fancy Michelin star restaurant or luxury spa, or whatever it is he usually does that involves spending copious amounts of money. But it sounds as if she’s doing OK. And it’s a bonus that I get to see her for lunch one day next week, which means I don’t have to make the effort to go up to see her. We’re not mega close sisters; we’re more the type that catch up at Mum’s at Christmas.
I know I should visit her more often, but I’m always slightly nervous that I’d get all the way there and we’d have nothing to talk about. When we were growing up, the three years between us seemed cavernous, and while the years between us don’t matter so much anymore, our lives are still so different. She’s a kept woman who’s married and living happily ever after, whereas I’m more working girl and unlucky in love.
It’s really busy at work at the moment so lunch would probably be best. Shall we try for Wednesday? xx
‘Man alive, the queue for the bar was crazy. Here, get this down your grid before we go.’
I eye the glass suspiciously.
‘Shots? Are we there yet, really? It’s not even five o’clock.’
‘Somewhere in the world it is, and, believe me, we’re that desperate. I overheard the game that Zoe’s got in mind for on the way to the boat. You’re going to want this.’
Reluctantly, I take the glass from Erica and shudder as I sniff it. Tequila. I try and think of a time when something good happened after tequila, but most things that follow it are hazy. If the game that Zoe’s going to have us play is as bad as Erica is making out, then maybe that’s no bad thing.
Erica shakes a little sachet of salt onto her wrist before she pours some on mine.
‘Three, two, one!’ shouts Erica, before we both throw the shot back. And as I recoil at the putrid taste she thrusts a wedge of lime at me.
‘Hold that pose,’ says Erica as she snaps a photo of me. ‘Adorable.’
‘I bet that’s my new Facebook profile picture right there,’ I say laughing as I snatch her phone and see my gurning face.
‘One more selfie for the road?’ she asks and we both pick up our phones.
‘Pose slutty,’ I say, mocking the theme, and we both pout and push up our cleavage.
I hastily snap, then wince at how drunk we look when I see it. We’ve got hours to go yet; I dread to think what treasures I’ll find on my phone tomorrow morning.